You don't care. I know. But I hold onto hope like the last summer leaves cling to the branches. I hope you'll turn round and say "I noticed. I care". But you don't. You turn your back and pretend the words never left my lips. And every time it kills me. Piece by piece I break into tiny fragments of the beautiful child I use to be. It's hope that's responsible for the blood on the floor. And I know that like those last leaves, eventually I'll fall.
